Something too small to see.

My hands start out twitching, slowly, almost completely unnoticed. When the tremors increase, I begin to sweat, starting at the place on my temples where my hairline has retreated, starting at the very center crease of the lifeline in the middle of my palms and leaking outward. Then they begin to shake. I sit under all 19 florescent overheard lights trying to steady them, to focus my vision.

I begin to get sleepy despite myself and my vision goes blurry again. I’m trying to see something that isn’t there. I’m trying to see the absence of you instead of waiting for your arrival to knuckle down. Trying for somewhere that isn’t this desk, somewhere I know how to be still.

It’s almost two p.m. and I am in trouble. The ways in which I am superstitious are embarrassing and comforting and I am shaking, sweating, silent. My molars are rubbing up against each other in the back of my mouth out of pure desperation and I immediately wish I had insisted on that mouth guard the dentist offered me months ago. I can hear them quaking in my sleep, the weight of their full court all caught up in my dreams making the blankets draping my hips water log themselves to anvils too heavy to lift.

It is an exercise in escapism; it is a dream about feeling my heart stop beating, the muscles in my fingers vibrating against my skin and the tiniest of disappointing gestures. A singular longing, somewhere that isn’t this desk. Somewhere that isn’t my bed. That tiny pocket in my jeans, the fifth one, empty of peach colored pills, and left dusty and dark as I jam my shaking digits in and out, hunting. The art of letting go.

Everything is going to be fine.

Photo by K. Fallon

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